An Artist Wish FrUk
by DapperBomb
Summary: François life has always been with his paintings. His lonelyness makes him create a masterpiece from his heart, his last wish. The original is mine from wattpad under the same name. I'm planning to move here since I'm tired of seeing the book about a girl who fights against a dark edgy demon ruler tyrant Henry from One Direction. But I'm still searching for that book


A delicate stroke. A swift movement. Bright paint. His mind. These four things were what he needed to feel complete in this world. Or at least that's what he thought.

Because Francis also wished for someone who loved him.

Since that thought came into his mind he could only dream for future lovers. For perfect lovers. And he painted them. He painted them thinking what would it feel like to be with them, to kiss them, to love them and receive the same. He already did three samples:

His first creation had the shape of a woman with blond hair and a perfect body. The painter copied her from old photograph on a shop, but he thought her beauty would last for decades.

The second one was a normal woman, a tiny and chubby brunette with a lovely smile. They met in the park while she was taking her dog for a walk. When they were together at first Francis didn't noticed her, she was an stranger. But when she helped a kid that fell on the floor and she smiled... he fell in love. Her movements, her grace, and her smile. But also she had a boyfriend, and Francis wasn't the kind of person to steal someone's couple.

And the third one. This one was his favourite because it formed in his mind, it bloomed in his soul, it woke up in his heart. And with the power of this little spark the artist started painting. Stroke by stroke, little by little... and it formed the image of a man. This was surprising at first when he made the concept in pencil but his own heart told him to continue.

And so he did.

When he finished the masterpiece it was unbelievable.

It was a blonde-ash short haired man. His eyes were green and his skin pale. His clothing was elegant, like a well dressed British gentleman. Physically he was thin. He wasn't nothing in particular. Maybe not for you, but for Francis he was everything.

He looked for a long time at his creation. It was unbelievable. Finally that knot in his stomach was released. And he just watched as the paint got dry... And watched... wishing...

Wishing the painting came to life.

"Papa!" A voice came from the corridor. It was Matthew, his adopted sibling. "I haven't talked with you in ages! How are y-oh" Suddenly his face, when he saw the painter, changed its expression. "You... don't look well"

And then the French man realized that he had been painting for... days? Weeks? Doesn't matter. His job was done and he was happy, that's the true finale. That's an artist's purpose.

"Don't worry, Matthew" the French man spoke " I have never been better, don't worry about me..."

"A-at least let me cook you something! Um... some soup will do good, yeah, just don't move, eh?" And with this words he left to the kitchen.

Finally alone Francis could look at the painting again. And he would love to look at it for the rest of his life. Alone. All alone...

And again he wished that it would come to life. He raised up his hand and caressed the painted's cheek, slowly, with care.

And the painting closed his eyes and smiled.

With fear he took his hand out of the paint, looking again at the other man of the canvas, shocked. But at the same time his heart was racing. Did his wish... come true?

"Oh, why would you stop?" The other answered with an English accent. It was unbelievable. He wanted to pinch his cheek but maybe it would ruin the moment. And when he lost his thoughts when looking at the painting he forgot that need. Two hands came out of the painting and took his hand, and then a head came out.

"Here" the English man said "you can continue, I liked it" and put the hand on his cheek again. The touch was somehow... strange, as he felt it a bit cold, but at the same time warm and soft. Francis used the other hand too, as it seemed that he didn't want to let go the man from the painting. As he caressed the face he cried. Finally he was not alone, he had somebody, he was loved. Tears rolled down his cheeks as that thought made a home in his mind. And he couldn't help it but kiss the person from the painting. It was unwanted but Francis feared that he could never see him again, that it was all a dream... The other man recieved the kiss, maybe understanding the situation the painter was in. He kissed back with passion, trying to make the painter feel better.

When both lips disconnected the french painter only could say "I want to be with you... I don't want to let you go...". This words surprised the painted man as he gave a puzzled look to the transmitter. But in the end he smirked, and replied.

"Then come with me"

Francis couldn't even trust what he heard. Was that even possible? To enter a painting? That sounded at least like a miracle, like some fairy tale was just written at this moment. But even so he nodded, waiting for a new life. And with that little statement the other man softly pulled him inside his world. As he entered the canvas he felt like he was flying, free from any worries, from sadness and fear. He was complete, finally.

"Papa, the soup is d-" and then a plate broke in the ground, giving the Canadian a severe burn in the leg. But that didn't mattered. "Papa! Are you all right?!" he shouted in pure terror as he kneeled beside the man who taught him everything about life. Matthew began to shake him to wake him up under no response. There was no breathing and no pulse, but he found a little smile upon the painter's lips.

 **Years later...**

Oh, god this art exhibition IS boring. Arthur thought he could at least be at home, reading a book or something... not watching at modern art. Between dots above lines and lines above dots he found again his companion. Alfred.

"Hey, yo, are you having a goood time?" the American shouted. No, he wasn't, he didn't liked modern art at all. What's the problem with traditional art anyway? Did people not like it anymore? Why society follows this lead now? "Please, Alfred, do me a favor and tell me there are some REAL paintings in here" the British said with an exhausted expression.

"Yeah, I think I just saw some paintings from a dude named Bonnie, c'mere!" and being pulled from the shirt he was carried to another room. This new place had a few paintings which were more worked and detailed, more traditional, as the British man liked. He looked through every masterpiece with care, liking what we saw, a park, a cottage in the forest, a case with flowers, two really beautiful women, one with a lovely smile...

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted, breaking the pace of the exibition "come! You need to see this!"

He, in the end, did what he was told, as the American made expontaneous and impolite movements with arms and hands, making him the center of attention. "Look" he said, pointing at a canvas.

"Impossible" was the word that crossed his mind. He was watching... at himself. His face, his expression, his clothing... he was the painting. "It is EXACTLY as you! Don't you think?" The other man said, making him go back to reality. "It must be a mistake..." he answered "it's just a coincidence" and with this words he left the scene to look at more paintings by the same artist. Because he wanted to know WHY. In the end he walked to meet a self portrait of the artist, a French blonde man called Francis Bonnefoy. "Heh, that's why Alfred called him Bonnie" he thought with a smirk. The portrait depicted the man in a serious pose and expression, but some bits of sadness were in his eyes. And, somehow, he wanted to help him feel better. To see him happy. That feeling was strange because he didn't know him at all!

But not unwanted.

"What can I do for you..." he said with a whisper. And then that sadness in the eyes changed into a smile. The painting was smiling at him, and it was warm and calmed... like he was saying "thank you" Arthur couldn't help it but smile too.

"Yoooooo! Why are you running like that!". Oh, God, not again. He looked back to see again his companion, shouting, as always. "You bloody wanker be a bit respectful" he answered, trying not to shout too. And when he looked back at the painting... the smile was gone.

He couldn't help it but say "Was it only... my imagination?"

"What was your imagination?" Answered the American, getting near the painting. "Hey! It's Bonnie!"

"Yeah, it's Bonnie..."

"He is a pretty cool dude for painting all this stuff, don't you think?"

And Arthur looked at the canvas and smiled, understanding the situation the painting was, with those sad eyes and his loneliness. "Yeah" he said "he is a cool dude..."


End file.
